Birds of a Feather
by the anomaly
Summary: Jonathan Crane, aged 15, is not your usual knight in shining armour, but neither is the girl a damsel in distress. Not your typical love story. For now, every chapter is one of the many little happy endings in a tragedy.
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

This story is about the first time Jonathan Crane falls in love. But who's the lucky girl, what sort of love is it, and whether it will eventually work out, you'll have to read and find out. He may seem a little out of character, because this is set way before he becomes the character that he is in the film, and teenage hormones are at work here as well. This story is based on the version of Dr. Crane's back-story in **_Searching for my Shadow_**, which may differ from other writers', for it is written merely based on my own interpretation and imagination. You are encouraged to read that before reading this one too. Enjoy!

**Please read and review!**

**Chapter I**

Jonathan Crane emerged victorious from the school library. It had been an exhausting search, an epic battle against old mouldy books, nimble dust mites and the claustrophobic conditions of a dark corner in the library, where all he had was sheer grit and determination as a weapon for his own self-defence. But as he cradled the large pile of books in his hands, opening the glass door of the library by leaning his side against it and trying to push his glasses up using his nose, he felt an immense sense of self-satisfaction. A feeling that he had not come across in such long time that it felt foreign and strangely wrong. He pushed that thought away hastily; so far, today had been a good day.

Eager to begin working on the written report, the 15-year old carefully managed to cram the entire stack of books into his backpack. He slung it over his thin shoulders, ready to head home. It was almost half-past-six in the evening, and the sun had already begun to say its goodbyes to Gotham City. In the west, a sunset made with grenadine, leaving behind its last lingering traces along the horizon before beckoning the moon to rise.

He stepped out of the school gates, and suddenly recalled that he had left his file behind in his locker. Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to remember to be more careful next time as he retraced his steps back to the lockers, climbing the flights of stairs with a scowl on his face.

Jonathan was about 20 metres away from the lockers when a loud smash interrupted his thoughts. Someone had slammed a locker door so hard; it would be a miracle if it was still intact. In spite of himself, he jerked his head up and saw two male students cornering a girl. She was vaguely familiar; where had he seen her before? He did not usually pay attention to the faces that dotted his classrooms during lessons. Jonathan was always silently grateful if people were to treat him as though he had melted into the concrete wall, and repaid them by pretending that they were part of the wallpaper, mere senseless decorations worth no notice. He enjoyed their indifference toward him, and it amused him that his loathing of being noticed by people echoed others' dislike of being ignored.

Standing behind another block of lockers so that they would not discover him, he observed the proceedings between them. It seemed that the boys were trying to extort money from the girl. He was still trying to figure out her identity when one of them attempted to slap her across her face. She screamed, but managed to block the blow with her arm.

"Don't think you can try to be funny with us!" The first boy yelled, before allowing a string of violent expletives to spurt forth from his lips. Jonathan wondered if any saliva came along in the bargain, and ignored the itch in his fingers. It would be senseless to go to her aid. He wouldn't be able to assist her to fend off the bullies, and he would end up getting involved for nothing. There was simply no reason to place himself at the receiving end of a black eye and other random injuries. He stood and waited.

It turned out that he didn't even need to come to her rescue, much as it had appeared that it was sorely needed at first. The girl, tired of the boys' "fervent attention", spun around and gave one of them a punch in the face. It knocked him out cold. Before the other boy could escape, she sent a flying kick into his stomach. He fell upon his knees, but managed to muster enough strength to limp away, leaving his partner-in-arms behind. The girl spat fiercely on the ground, and muttered, "Scumbags," as she locked her locker and picked up her bag, preparing to leave.

Jonathan blinked several times.

She was coming toward his direction, her steps quickly narrowing the distance between them. Before long, she was standing in front of him.

"So, you were watching, weren't you? I saw you watching. Free entertainment, hm?" Her piercing gaze matched his as she stared at him, voice tinged with acid sarcasm.

It was a rare moment: Jonathan found himself at a loss for words. There was nothing dull, witty or sensible that he could say in response. He chose to stare back at her instead. Something prevented him from walking away as he usually did during confrontations. He was still trying to recall her name, which was evading him; he was sure, on purpose. A slight frown creased his smooth forehead.

"Why, you're not man enough to save me from those brutes hm?" She took a step back, and looked at him from head to toe. He averted his eyes awkwardly, suddenly aware that his sweater needed mending and that his shoelaces were undone. He swallowed uncomfortably before answering, "Well, I'm definitely no knight in shining armour," trying to sound as though it was a plain fact that didn't matter to him at all.

She barked a little laugh and replied immediately, "And next, you're going to tell me that I wasn't a damsel in distress anyway."

He shrugged his shoulders, "You can think what you like."

She pushed her hair out of her eyes and stared even more keenly at him. Jonathan disliked the way her eyes were like pinpoints of light at the end of the tunnel, piercing a small hole into his skull and slowing examining every thought, every memory and every harboured grudge. He held his breath.

Finally, she announced, a little too triumphantly, "I know! You're from the same drama class as me!" She smiled. He concluded that he would never successfully recall her name, and decided that she looked nicer when she was trying to be sarcastic. The way her eyes flashed like flint made him think that she was, well, _interesting_. He nodded, in both agreement and farewell.

Before he could leave, she thrust a hand out before him, "Ethel Crowe,"

He disliked handshakes; he had always thought a handshake was an agreement on a friendship that wouldn't last and a cleverly camouflaged way to check if the opposite party had sweaty palms. But it would make him look stupid to refuse, so he accepted it and said, "Jonathan Crane," She grasped his hand and shook it firmly, and it reminded him of an old documentary he had seen of an octopus strangling its prey with its tentacles. He tried to wipe that hilarious image from his mind, to no avail. Jonathan could feel something unknown bubbling within him, stirring up a storm. He could stifle it no longer; laughter started to erupt in his throat and came out of his mouth in loud gasps. Still holding her hand, he could feel himself being overcome by mirth, his shoulders shaking convulsively. For a few seconds, he was so surprised at his own behaviour that it didn't occur to him that it was totally inappropriate and nonsensical.

She stared at him, amused. She did not expect such mirthless eyes to be lit up by laughter so easily. It slowly dawned on him that she was observing every move he made, every word he said, every breath he inhaled and expelled. He imagined her thoughts being broadcasted in a thought bubble hovering above her head. _Emotional response inappropriate to situation. This guy's a nut._

_Better salvage the situation,_ he thought. Opening his mouth to explain himself, "I was, thinking, thinking of an octopus. I mean, you see, I was remembering, remembering an octopus with, with tentacles, and it was strangling, I mean, shaking, shaking my hand..." His voice came out as an uneven staccato of words and gasps, his tongue stumbling over the simplest of words. Oh, the terrible aftermath of ineffectively smothered laughter. He closed his mouth, positively horrified. _That's it, the damage is irreparable. Now she'll really know that I'm a nut._ He consoled himself. _Everyone thinks I'm just a freak anyway; another girl thinking like that wouldn't hurt. _

She laughed and released his hand. It sounded like bells, softly tinkling, not the brash chiming sort that shocked people out of their sleep. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought, _I'm starting to associate humans with inanimate objects._ Her voice startled him out of his little reverie, "It was nice meeting you, Jonathan Crane," and turned and walked off before he could collect himself and present her with a decent reply, something she was probably awaiting for several moments.

She didn't drag her feet like the other kids in the school, nor did she lift her chin too high as she walked away. He was having a hard time trying to classify her; she didn't fit into the rough crowd or the popular crowd or the overly-studious crowd (if one Jonathan Crane could be considered a crowd). Perhaps she was a mis-fit. But then and again, she looked too confident to be one. So that would make her...

Jonathan Crane couldn't help getting lost in his own thoughts as he returned home. He wasn't surprised when he realised that he had forgotten to retrieve his file from his locker.

----------

He entered the empty apartment. He had been living alone ever since he convinced his father to allow him to continue living in Gotham, after Mom and Julien passed away.

_It's all right, Father. I can take care of myself. _That meant, _I don't need sympathy from a hypocrite. _

And Mr. Crane had replied, a little too enthusiastically, _That's great! Now that you're all grown up; you must learn how to be independent. _And that probably meant, _Finally, this loser of a son is out of my life. My only chance to put everything behind me now, and start afresh. And no one will blame me for leaving him behind in Gotham; he himself asked to be left there. I'm sending him money anyway. _

_You must be busy, Father. _A disguised _I know I'm an undesirable reminder of the old days; so now go back to your perfect family: a lovely slut of wife and three snot-nose children. _

_Yes, yes, there's a lot to be done here. I'll call again in the future, okay? _He sounded so eager to get off the phone; Jonathan imagined that his father must have been interrupted in the midst of some serious business of lovemaking or feeding a six-month old baby.

_I won't trouble you then. Goodbye, Father. _He would spit into the phone if he could, but he didn't want to spoil the appliance. Trying to convince himself that it wasn't worth getting angry over a person who was the first tumbling rock that started the avalanche was a difficult task.

_Goodbye, Jonathan. _The phone clicked off before Jonathan had finally lost his self-control and shouted into the phone, "Go to hell, you bloody selfish asshole!"

Now, other than the meagre paycheque (_You know I have other children to feed, Jonathan. Thank you for your understanding_) that arrived every month and an occasional phone call, he never heard from his father. Secretly, he was grateful for his father's nonchalance and disregard for him as a son. It gave him more reason to dwell in his own comfort zone, where nothing came between him and his studies. If Jonathan disliked being noticed by others, his hatred for the pathetic concern drizzled upon him by his father was boundless. _Why indulge in some deceitful manner of showing that you care for your son when you actually don't? Does it make you feel better when you cross that cheque, and know that you're sending money to a "family" that you've single-handedly destroyed?_ These unspoken questions hung unanswered in every phone call that Mr. Crane made to his son, placed precariously between one phone receiver and the other, their presence carefully ignored. Jonathan had never called his father out of his own free will, not even when the latter had once forgot to send the cheque for one month and he had to live on stale bread and margarine.

After fixing himself a tuna sandwich, Jonathan balanced the plate on his lap as he sat on the sofa, a book opened before him. Although his hunger to learn more about the mind and its prowess was ever insatiable, he occasionally indulged in adventure novels, where the hero or the heroine would brave many dangers and emerge victorious in the end. Sometimes, when he allowed his mind to wander just a little, he could lose himself among the pages, and become one with the story. Sometimes, he could pretend that he was the hero, and that he was the one who succeeded in slaying dragons and saving maidens. Sometimes, he could forget, and escape from the harshness of reality.

_Forget? I'll never allow it!_

He closed his eyes, and whispered fiercely, "I'll never forget, never," a futile talisman to protect him against the passing of time. As the years went by, it became harder and harder for him to remember the times when he would wake up on Sunday mornings and see his mother in the kitchen cooking pancakes, and Julien sitting nearby, speaking in some baby garble that only she (and sometimes, perhaps his mother) could understand. His father would be reading the papers, saying nothing but making his presence felt as the head of the household. He had trouble conjuring up the way the water felt as it lapped against his skin when his mother gave him warm baths as a child, the way Julien's eyes sparkled in the sun, her voice, her soft dark hair.

"Never, never," he chanted silently in his mind, the book entirely forgotten. The happy days, the feelings of being loved, were slipping through his fingers like sand. He grasped at each grain, desperate, but letting them go gave him a reason to be angry, to hate the people around him, to direct his own dark play where he slipped willingly into despair and could still blame the people around him.

His mind wandered. A laugh, like tinkling bells, managed to stay afloat in the sea of voices, returning to him with each incoming tide.

"_It was nice meeting you, Jonathan Crane," _

Jonathan smiled. He was beginning to think about what he would say in reply the following day at school.

_She was mocking you, idiot. Do you really think you're that likeable? Fancy talking about octopuses to a girl!_ An unmistakable cackle of laughter followed.

Strangely, he wasn't angry. Instead, he rose and made his way to his bag, replying calmly, "I'm going to begin reading the books now." He pulled the first one out. It smelled like mould. He wrinkled his nose.

But he had not gotten past the first chapter when the reindeers had harnessed the sleds to his eyelids and pulled them shut. Not even with Draconian strength could he have kept them open, as he wandered alone into Slumberland. _10 minutes_, he promised himself.

The sandwich lay untouched on the table.

**To Be Continued...**


	2. Chapter II

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review!**

**Chapter II**

Not only was she in his Drama class, she was also in his Domestic Sciences, Biology and Mathematics classes. Jonathan found himself unconsciously searching for a glimpse of her chestnut hair during a Chemistry practical, and wondered why his heart fell when she wasn't there. After that brief encounter with Ethel, he did not attempt to speak with her, nor did she approach him.

Nevertheless, he realised that she always seemed to be within sight during the classes that they shared and most of the times when he was by the lockers or in the cafeteria. But whether it was she who was making sure that he was within sight or the other way round, he wasn't sure. He had caught her staring at him a few times, brazenly showing the world that she did not mind paying more attention to the biggest nerd in the school and spending less time hanging out with the popular crowd. It made him feel sinisterly special and uncomfortable. He preferred anonymity and tried his best in keeping his eyes down and his thoughts to himself, avoiding her piercing gaze which fell upon him off and on.

On the other hand, her presence had given him an advantage as well. The news that she had single-handedly taken on two of the school's toughest bullies had spread like wildfire throughout the entire school. Hushed whispers about how a girl had actually intimidated two strong burly guys bounced off the walls and landed in every corner, waiting to be picked up by each and every pair of ears. The bullies were clearly afraid of another humiliating encounter, and kept clear out of Ethel's way, secretly plotting revenge amongst themselves. Having Ethel somewhere nearby meant that the bullies could no longer catch Jonathan alone and off-guard, and he was silently thankful for being able to escape the beatings for two whole weeks.

He never expressed his gratitude, for he felt that silence and quiet observation would maintain this status quo between both of them. It was easier if things were predictable, unchanging as the sun rising in the east, for such constants in a world where almost anything and everything could be eroded away so effortlessly provided some sort of comfort. _False comfort, _he whispered But still, it was reassuring to be able to run his eyes across the classroom, and observe her lazily doodling on her paper as the Biology teacher droned on about cells being the building blocks of life. The exact incline of her head as it rested in one hand, the way she placed her books and stationery, how her long brown hair was arranged on her shoulders, little constants replayed day after day in school, mimicking the cycles of dawn and dusk. Being able to notice her shadow each and every time he stared out of the corners of his eyes made him think of opening a jack-in-the-box or the old cuckoo clock displayed in the living room years ago. Nothing else but the silly-faced clown would jump out at you, no matter how many times you opened the box or how fancy your imagination was. And the bird would faithfully come out of its little house as every hour passed, chirping the same melody. He had learnt a habit of desperately assuring oneself that everything would still turn out fine as long as certain things remained unchanged, even though those things were often immaterial. He smiled faintly as he walked out of the classroom.

Someone slammed him hard against the wall. Jonathan gasped, in shock. He felt the coarse surface of the wall against his cheek as he struggled to see who his attacker was. A hand, gripping his neck and the back of his head prevented this.

A low voice whispered into his ear, "Don't think you can get away just because that girl keeps being near you," he spat in Jonathan's face. Jonathan tried not to flinch and succeeded, a stoic expression quickly covering his initial surprise. He recognised the voice of Gary, one of the guys in the school who enjoyed beating the tar out of smaller kids.

He continued, sneering, "Seriously, I didn't think that a _scarecrow _would need the protection of a _girl_. And when did you actually start learning how to walk for 10 metres without stumbling over your own feet so that you could catch her attention?"

Jonathan's temper flared but he bit his tongue. He knew that he could walk an entire _kilometre _without falling. And he didn't think that he needed anyone's protection; he could very well fend for himself. He didn't need _a girl_ to...

As if on cue, Ethel appeared. She ran towards them, shouting, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Speak of the devil," announced Gary to the crowd gathering around the two boys.

The crowd parted to allow her to stand face to face with Gary, who was at least a head taller than her. But the way she stood, with her shoulders squared, feet shoulder-width apart and firmly planted on the ground and her chin tilted up defiantly made her seem to tower above him. With her lips set in a grim line, she ordered, "Let him go."

"And why do _I_ have to listen to _you_, little lady?" he mocked.

"Because of what I am going to do next if you don't release him," she replied coolly.

"Oh, I am _so_ scared...Now what can _you_..." But before he could complete his sentence, she bloodied his nose with a punch which wiped the smirk off his face. He stumbled backward, stumped with disbelief. The crowd cheered, wanting more.

"Now, _scram_," she said coldly, her voice low and threatening.

Gary stumbled away, shouting back, "Well, at least I don't need any girl to defend me!" Several people laughed. _Haha, the scarecrow's just a girl...Can't even fight for himself...Poor weak scarecrow..._Jonathan could hear their whispered comments, magnified by his bruised ego. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he looked straight into Ethel's face, something he had not allowed himself to do for two whole weeks.

"Why did you have to do that?" he asked, accusatory.

The bonfire in her eyes died down to a small flickering flame. "He was trying to break your neck, Jonathan," she tried to explain.

The crowd started to disperse, aware that the action was already over. He retorted, "And _I _can watch out for my own neck, thank you very much." Jonathan stormed away, gripping his backpack so hard his knuckles gleamed white. She went after him, quick steps picking up into a jog as he started to run. "Jonathan, stop, wait..."

He halted, and turned around. "Could you just, I don't know, stop following me?" Ethel tried to protest, but he silenced her, "I don't need your _protection_, your _sympathy_, whatever! I don't need you to punch Gary's nose for me, I can very well do it myself. Now get that clear!" Once again he picked up his feet and ran off in the opposite direction, and when she tried to run after him, he yelled back, "I said, STOP following me!" She stood still, watching the figure of Jonathan Crane gradually receding as each second passed.

Jonathan was forced to slow down when his pounding heart screamed for attention. He could hear his own laboured breathing; feel the blood coursing through his veins. His head hurt, temples throbbing. Finally alone in a washroom cubicle, he recognised his anger at being insulted, and saw that Ethel's efforts at explaining her actions had only sparked off a full-blown outburst from him. "She was only trying to help," he whispered, "and I shouted in her face." _But it was justified! What mortification at being helped by a girl!_ He ignored the voice, concentrating instead on the queasy feeling he had in his stomach, as if he had eaten something too rich that had unsettled him. The last time he had felt like this was...

_He arrives home from school, tired and worn out. It has been a particularly difficult day. There is a loud crash heard from the kitchen. Fearing the worst, he throws down his bag and hurries to the kitchen doorway. _

_Julien is standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a spatula that is too large for her little girl's hands. A red coloured sauce pools at her feet, slowly spreading to cover an ever-expanding area of the kitchen floor, like a vile disease. _

_He lets out a deep breath, lifts his hand to his forehead. Would you like to tell me what exactly are you doing? _

_She notices that he sounds unusually harsh and weary. I was trying to cook spaghetti, she beams. Looking up to catch the frown on his face, she turns sheepish, and her eyes fall to her feet, voice no louder than a guilty whisper, but I dropped the pot. _

_I can see that, he says. He tries to calm the storm of irritation brewing within him, but it is beyond him. That, he says, pointing to the pool of sauce on the floor, is going to take _hours_ to clean. Why can't you just stay out of the kitchen, Julien? It would save me a lot of trouble._

_She looks at him with doleful eyes, but doesn't answer._

_He gets a cloth, and kneels on the floor, carefully avoiding getting the sauce on himself as he wipes it up. As he cleans, he becomes increasingly angry. Comments muttered under his breath are slowly turning into a shouted tirade in an elaborate crescendo, I don't even know why I'm doing this? Why should I even _care_, why should I even _bother_? This is so stupid, damn it. I am sick and tired, why can't everyone just _leave me ALONE_! He is about to launch into another angry outburst, when he hears her sobbing. He looks up at her, and she tries to hide the fact that she is frightened and crying, swallowing each sob and smothering every sniffle._

_Oh Julien, he says, immediately regretting that he has shouted at her. He stands up and goes to her. Shit, I'm sorry. _

_I thought you, she hiccups, you liked spaghetti, she explains._

_I still do, shh...he says, wiping his fingers on the cloth and awkwardly stroking her hair with the back of one hand to comfort her. _

_You're angry with me 'cause you, you have to clean up, she accuses._

_I was, but now you've got to help me, he smiles slightly. He takes a step back and looks at her, spaghetti sauce smeared down the front of her shirt and across one tear-stained cheek. You look like you've just survived a swordfight, he jokes, trying to erase the memory of him losing his temper from her mind. _

_I do? she asks, doubtful._

_Yeah, he laughs hollowly, really cool. If only she would know how desperate he was to repair the damage, to see her smile again. He waits, angry at himself, watching the sun come out from behind the clouds in the storm that he has orchestrated. _

_She looks down at herself, and a smile spreads across her face, revealing pearly white teeth. Her eyes, which are like and unlike his own, stare back into his. They are the same clear piercing blue, but hers are younger, and they reflect more light. Only her eyes are truly happy, out of acceptance and not ignorance. She buries her face in his stomach, as he puts his arms around her. He'd forgotten about the sauce on her that would stain his trousers. She giggles and her breath hitches, tickling his stomach with each laugh, oh joy. _

_He closes his eyes and lets his worries and unhappiness fall away. He knows he needs her as much as she needs him. _

_It is one of the many little happy endings in a tragedy._

Jonathan sighed, and buried his face in his hands. If only things could be this easy.

----------

Ethel turned and walked away in the other direction. She takes in a deep breath, clearing her mind. Her hand, still hurting from the punch that she had delivered into Gary's nose, looked red and slightly swollen. It was easier to ignore that throbbing pain than deal with the doubts that rose within her.

She headed for the nearest washroom. Cold running water would help to numb the pain for a while. She would ice it later when she was at home, so no one would see her wince. Turning on the tap, she stuck one hand under it and then the other to splash some water on her face. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror: an average-looking girl with sharp, chiselled features and high cheekbones. Her green eyes could shine like emeralds or be as mellow as the colour of empty wine bottles. Water dripped down her nose as she rubbed her eyes to get a clearer look.

_I don't need your _protection,_ your _sympathy_, whatever!_ Her reflection coldly reminded her of her earlier confrontation with Jonathan.

To her knowledge, she hadn't pitied him. No, she could never bring herself to do something that degrading to another person. From the time when she had observed him carefully avoid entering the argument between her and the two boys, she had guessed that he was different. Teases and insults were aimed specifically at him because of his smaller physique and his studiousness. He bore them silently most of the time, and only his eyes and the occasional scowl on his face betrayed his true feelings of contempt, targeted at those hooligans and also at himself. Since that day, she had been unable to keep her eyes off him for even short periods of time. She couldn't deny that she enjoyed watching him. His blue eyes, cold and burning both at once, were part of the entire list of polar opposites that allowed the world to make sense. Light and dark, joy and sorrow, passionate anger and a placid quietness, all swam together in the blue orbs. He, who seldom smiled and never laughed (save for the first time he'd met her), who paid undivided attention to his work, who would speak to a book if it would reply.

And yes, she had wanted to protect him. She was never one to comfort people with words; they stumbled as they left her tongue, falling into meaningless abysses, or got stuck in her throat most of the time. It was a relief to know that she could, with a hand clenched into a hard fist, offer wordless comfort and support. After growing up with three older brothers, delivering a punch was as effortless as eating bread and honey.

Again his voice echoed, _I don't need you to punch Gary's nose for me, I can very well do it myself. Now get that clear! _

"Don't you understand, I _want_ to punch his nose for you," she murmurs to the reflection of herself, before re-stepping into the shoes of one Ethel Crowe so that she could face the world. She checks her timetable, and feels relief.

There was a Domestic Sciences lesson tomorrow.

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Chapter III

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review!**

**Chapter III**

"Today, I shall require the class to get into pairs, and in order for this to be done quickly and without any dissent, you will pair up according to the register," the Domestic Sciences teacher addressed them.

An undisguised groan was heard all around. No one bothered to even remember the name of the teacher that stood before them, much less show her any respect. Even Jonathan, who was remembered by his teachers as being a "conscientious, diligent and attentive" student, was in the middle of a daydream. This explained his surprise at finding himself standing behind the same bench as Ethel moments later. He stole a glance at her, but quickly dropped his eyes back to his feet, hearing but not listening to the teacher's droning voice.

"...blueberry tarts...collect materials from the front...clean the mixers properly..." He was busy studying his shoelaces, pretending to be an ant which followed a lace that snaked in and out of the little holes in his shoe. He barely noticed Ethel walking past him to go up to the teacher's bench to collect the raw materials. When she returned, they worked, creaming the butter with the sugar, sifting in the flour, rolling out the pastry. They were conveniently ignoring each other and the no-man's land in between the opposite trenches in which each of them fought their own battles silently. She against doubt, he against the agony of confusion. Apart from Ethel's spoken instructions, which were short and curt, no sound passed between them. He answered her in brief nods, and attempted to follow what she told him to do. She tried not to notice his periods of indifference and lapses of attention toward her. It was painful, feeling him staring at her in little glances, looking but not seeing. It did not occur to her that he was thinking about the same thing.

Once, when she was carrying the tray of tart casings, ready to send them into the oven, he had turned around abruptly and knocked into her arm. He shrank back immediately, eyes falling back to his task of filling the tarts with custard and blueberry tart filling, muttering a hurried apology. She laughed, humourlessly, the smile creasing her face but not meeting her eyes, "It's all right. Good thing these are safe though," she said, meaning the tarts, and avoided his eyes. Then he went back to his work, filling tarts with a ferocious concentration, drowning himself in the monotonous operation instead of confronting the chance for him to truly apologise for yesterday's events. _But why bother? She probably hates you like everyone else. No one likes poor, lousy Scarecrow...no one even cares..._

He sighed. Domestic Sciences was already downright boring. Filling tarts made it even worse. The air was humid and heavy, the ovens droned on and on, his tip of his nose itched. He lifted one hand and rubbed it with the back of one finger, and sighed again. He looked at Ethel, and found that it was no longer so comforting to gaze at her, to observe her little movements, for every time he did so, sharp pangs of guilt and longing stabbed at his heart. What really irked him was that he failed to understand why.

"Could you take the tray out of the oven? I think it's time," she called.

He answered by getting hold of the oven glove and slipping his hand into it. The glove fit snugly, comfortingly claustrophobic. He retrieved the tray and laid it on the cooling rack, as she came over to inspect the tart casings.

She looked up from the tray, only to catch sight of his face. At first he wasn't aware of it; so absorbed in his task that he was oblivious to the soft tinkling laughter beside him. _Like bells._ He tried to ignore it, but baking for one and a half hours straight in a hot stuffy kitchen had made him increasingly irritable.

"What is it that you're laughing at?" His tone was sharp.

She stifled a laugh that was almost a giggle, "Most people know how to keep their face clean, Jonathan Crane."

He raised his eyebrows, then creased them in a frown, "What?"

"You have blueberry on your nose,"

"What?" A finger found the spot, and wiped it clean. "Oh." His cheeks heated up with embarrassment, as he felt her eyes on him again. He looked up at her, coughed slightly and said, "Well, at least it's better than having pastry bits in my hair," hiding a smirk that signified victory.

Now it was her turn to allow her face to turn a deep shade of red, turning around and trying to rid her hair of the small bit of pastry that had gotten into it, all in vain. He tried to hide his amusement, but failed. He knew he should help her, but a snide remark within him stayed his hand once more. _Who do you think you are? Prince Charming?_ So he watched her as she finally succeeded, and a little smile emerged on his face.

She stared back at him, the tarts forgotten. For a moment, the fact that they were utter strangers to each other startled her; enhancing her appetite for change. But first, one must repair the old faults before embracing the imminent future. She raised her voice a little over the drone of the ovens, "Yesterday, I was..." but stopped short, for he had, at the same time, said, "About yesterday..."

They laughed, she awkwardly, he shyly. Jonathan, although hesitant, spoke first, "About yesterday, it was my fault..." She interrupted him, "No, no, I shouldn't have tried to poke my nose into your business." Another silence hung between them, and it was hard to explain why as he took a step towards her, the distance between them seemed to have narrowed by great leagues. He tried again, "So," he swallowed, and cleared his throat, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

She nodded, "And I shouldn't have punched Gary's nose." He smiled, in agreement and relief, turning back to the tarts. Now, it was even harder to concentrate when this matter had been cleared out of his mind. The room for new possibilities frightened him slightly, but he was ready for what the future might bring.

The teacher walked past, inspecting their handiwork, nodding curtly. They smiled at each other, not only because of their culinary success. Before they left the kitchen, he allowed himself to say to her, "You can throw really good punches, you know," and she laughed.

----------

It was perfectly ridiculous. Jonathan did not understand the reason behind Drama classes, and his lack of interest and talent in this field was definitely an invalid excuse to exempt him from the dreadful weekly lessons. The attention that had been showered on him since young had always been associated with humiliation and searing pain, and the utter knowledge that he would forever be beneath his peers, a pale mimicry of a real teenage boy, hiding in the shadows. He hated the blinding spotlights, the immense effort that had to be taken to look and sound the way the teacher wanted him to be. _Stop slouching, Jonathan, and don't sound so sarcastic! Get into the character!_ He had enough of acting, of pretending to be perfectly all right every single day; his fair features a mere façade, concealing the torrents of emotions and raw fear. He used to be delighted in convincing others that he was unaffected by his broken family and abuse from his peers, for it was a power of sorts. Why, to be able to appear strong and deceive the teachers was particularly enjoyable, for his unconscious desire for love and attention had been fulfilled by the idea that he was in control of his outer image. It was instilled in him that under no circumstances should fear and weakness be displayed. But he was tiring, even if he couldn't bear to admit it, of ignoring the growing presence of fear and insecurity. _Solitude. _A single word that hinted of fragile peace but reeked of misery and loneliness.

There was a new assignment, a stage production, a presumably stunning highlight of the school's annual concert. Jonathan scoffed, and thought about how much it actually did matter to all of them. As usual, he would stay silent throughout all the practices and rehearsals, unnoticed by all, virtually absent and his sane mind wandering in the secret world of fears and insanity. The very idea of an hour a week of heaven in hell.

They were being assigned into groups now, the cast, the backstage crew, costumes, props, endless jobs and responsibilities dolled out and vaguely accepted with no sign of protest or even mock acknowledgement. He waited for his name, and secretly, for Ethel's as well. The teacher's voice was constantly being drowned in the racket, but _Jonathan Crane _rang clearly amidst the noise, for the few cronies who, for their own sadistic pleasure, couldn't wait to find out what Gotham's greatest geek would be assigned with so that they could further their plans for his torture, had lowered their volume for the very purpose.

"This is ridiculous, ridiculously stupid," he muttered, despite his desperate attempts to appear unaffected. The teacher had actually placed him in the main cast. _The main cast! _his inner self screamed, hiding the nagging urge to dive under cover while some insane part of him laughed wickedly at his own stupidity, saying _I knew it, they were out to get me_. Boiling anger mingled freely with disgust and quickened his pulse, as the noise in the room was getting louder and louder, mainly due to the snickers and snide remarks made by the other students._ The Scarecrow's gonna be the star of the night; we're gonna see the greatest joke of the universe on stage. _And a hard shove on his back, _Make sure you perform real good, eh, although you might encounter some problems. Having a head of straw is so difficult. _He heard someone imitate a crow's caw and his body stiffened, face hardening into a cold, unrevealing mask. Staring at his pale long fingers cradled in his lap, he scarcely managed to catch the teacher saying that Ethel was also in the same group. She had turned to him, smiling.

And that, instead of calming the storm brewing within him, only served to heighten his irritation.

Still staring at his hands, he said, sarcastically, "Now _this_ is indeed worthy of celebration,"

"Oh come now, it can't be that bad, right?" she shrugged.

"Yes, it is."

"Don't be such a wet blanket." She thought their spending more time together working out impossibly complicated trigonometry sums and discussing the importance of bioethics each day after school had unofficially given her the license to label him as such. Apparently, this was not so.

"You don't know what they'll do; you have no idea," his voice pitched higher than usual.

"It'll be all right," she said, now sensing his acute discomfort. Her hand reached for his, but he turned away before their fingers could meet. All she could see was his hunched back, the knobs along his spine showing through his shirt.

"It'll be okay," she insisted.

He rose. "I'm going to see the teacher."

Much as she would like to, she didn't stop him.

----------

"Sir?"

A rustling of paper, useless fumbling with a pen before it fell to the ground with a thud. The teacher looked up and answered, "Yes, Jonathan?"

He cleared his throat, and straightened his shoulders, "It's about the play."

"And what about it?"

"I would like to be transferred to another group," he stated plainly.

"And why is that?"

"I have absolutely no aptitude for..."

----------

Watching Jonathan speak to the teacher was like viewing a simple mime of which she was sure of the outcome. She sighed, and approached the scriptwriters, who were snickering and whispering among themselves. _Blatant conspirators,_ she thought, but asked them nonetheless, "So, you guys thought of anything yet?"

More sniggering. "Oh it's going to be _great_. _Exciting_. You're in for a good one, Crowe, ha ha."

One of them quietened, and faced her, serious, "Really, Crowe, why are you sticking with the Scarecrow huh?"

"Is he that great at kissing that you just have to follow him everywhere?"

Mocking laughter rang in her ears as she hissed, "Shut up. It's none of your business, you dirty-minded..."

Another quick-tongued remark followed, "Shouldn't you be _scared_ of the _Scarecrow_, eh, _Crowe_?"

"I said, shut up."

They saw Jonathan returning, and one of the girls said loudly, "Well, birds of a feather flock together, ain't that what they say?"

It did not miss his ears. He immediately turned on his heels and stalked off, walking quickly but not running. Nothing to betray his pent up frustration except the clenched fists at his sides. She chased after him.

"Hey."

He continued to walk, faster and faster until he broke into a run. She tried to keep up.

"What did he say?"

No answer.

"Jonathan."

He didn't acknowledge her, but began slowing down considerably.

She pressed on, "What did the teacher say?"

"Go away," he snarled.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Fine, I'm stuck in the cast and that should make you really happy," he spat.

She breathed. "I never said it would."

"You don't know anything."

"So?"

For lack of anything else, he said, "This is stupid," in a whiner voice than he would have wanted it to sound.

"Yeah, it is," then she added, almost gently, "It's only a play, Jonathan."

He laughed, a caustic laugh. He considered shaking her in his exasperation, the mounting irritation that edged on everything, making her see his anger, his pain, their intentions, all of it. He considered yelling. He considered making them all suffer, the screams, the fear, the sounds of ripping cloth and gnashing teeth.

What he said, after a sigh, was, "Let's go finish the math assignment," as he tried to comprehend the reasons behind his sudden outburst and the subsequent sudden recovery. _It's only a play, Jonathan._

And they go.

**To Be Continued...**

_Thank you to all who have reviewed :)_


	4. Chapter IV

**A/N: **I'm sorry this took so long. The first 1500 words were written three years ago, and the remainder written today, so please forgive any lack of cohesion.

Thank you for all the reviews and favs and alerts :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything except the plot and the characters not found in Batman Begins.

**Please read and review!**

**Chapter IV**

Jonathan Crane had never lost his bearings. Between the school and his home, he had mapped out every road, every building in his mind, an ugly labyrinth of grey concrete jungle that he had forced himself to commit to memory. It was the only way to outsmart those bullies, for he could never beat them in a fight, even if the spark in his eyes seemed to be ready to ignite and burn at any instant and he wielded his fist with righteous anger and sheer frustration at his own weakness.

His map could only serve the movement of his feet. In the physical sense, he never lost his compass; he could run.

_You can run but you can't hide._

And that was true. There was no escape to a world where there were only four plain white walls and nothing stood between him and peace. Perhaps, no such world even existed in the first place.

For the science of cartography would forever be limited, there was no map in the world that could include his feelings, his desires, his fears, and direct him to an imagined utopia. There was no compass which pointed him toward healing, acceptance and love.

There was _Ethel_. There were _dreams_. He could dream.

But once he entered the world of dreams, everything changed.

In the world of dreams, lines could melt, faces got distorted, and voices become amplified to an unearthly volume. In the world of dreams, there were no clear feelings, only screaming, choking sensations as the world whirled round and round until everything became muddled and unclear. Not that they were clear in the first place. In the world of dreams, there were no constants, no law of gravity, no lifebuoy or handhold.

And as his eyelids slowly slipped shut, he mumbled, _Not that sort of dreams..._

----------

Darkness had already descended upon the city hours ago. Ethel sat on the front steps of the house, hugging her knees close to her, shivering in the chilly breeze. She wondered when Aunt Serena would be home, until it dawned upon her that she would probably have to sit out here for the rest of the night. For what was left of it, she corrected herself, which was not much. It would do her good to convince herself that this was a blessing in disguise.

She sighed for what could be the third time, and chewed on one fingernail. She'd forgotten how many times this had happened. Ever since Uncle Fred had died, her aunt no longer treated her as part of their family. In fact, she mused, it had been so even when he was still alive, and only unknown to her due to her own childishness. It was one of the things a child could be vaguely aware of but never notice or confront outright. Children had this untaught ability to shut out the undesirable and focus only on what they wanted to believe. Nothing could erode their pillar of hope, for them there would always be a sun-dried tear, a sob stifled by candy in the mouth, a scrape soothed by kind words. You could tell a child that there was a blackout and he would tell you that the sun was still going to rise tomorrow.

_But you're no longer a child, stupid._ And now she knew, that all along the streaks of tears were still present, the sobs were swallowed and still stuck somewhere in the throat, the cuts still raw and red and oozing stinging pain.

So now she was sitting on the front steps. Her aunt was probably out partying, _entertaining clients_. The boys were all staying over at their friends' place, and there was no hope that the lights in the house would suddenly flicker on, and someone would welcome her home, bring her to a nice hot meal at a table, lead her to bed, soft and warm and...

Oh shut up, she hissed. Thinking about food had made her stomach growl. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to catch some sleep.

Nothing happened.

She opened her eyes again. A cricket chirped merrily, in blatant mockery of her being locked out of her own home. She bit her lip. _House_.

----------

_It starts simply enough. They are sitting side by side on the bridge, the river running beneath them. She swings her legs on__ce, two times, and stops. He stares at her, her green eyes, her small mouth, and surprises himself by running his fingers through her hair. _It is a dream; where things happen._ He can hear her breathing; see her chest rise up and down as his own heartbeat quickens. A flutter of the eyelids, her hand on his, and he lowers his eyes. It feels like he has jettisoned his worries into the river, and now its calm surface is tumultuous and he cannot see that which lies beneath the surface. He does not need to, for he only needs to look into her eyes and he will know._

_He turns to her, and she smiles at him. They don't speak; words would have endangered the birth of a moment, once lost, never to be regained. It was too precious, too beautiful, too much to bear. His heart beats frantically._

_He does not understand why his stomach lurches when their eyes lock, why he does not shy away, why she has chosen him. _It is a dream, he protests. _The feeling is so visceral, he can't explain it. It has nothing to do with books, fear, or even simple plain logic. It has everything to do with the deep sinking sensation in his gut. It has everything to do with her leaning in closer and closer until he can feel her breath on his nose, until..._

_She vanishes._

_He stands up instantly; turning round and round, searching for her, until he is dizzy and his legs cry, "STOP!" It is then when he spots her in the water. Her arms are waving desperately for help, each scream filling her lungs with water._

_He's not thinking, he knows, when he jumps into the river._

_As soon as he plunges beneath the surface, he gets transported to another place, another time. He recognises it not by the same roaring sound of water but by the ringing in his ears. And that which chokes him is not the water but his own guilt and fear. Insanity overwrites reason in the world of dreams._

_The screaming continues like a siren, wailing. Except that with the reversal of time, the screams sound younger, and he recognises Julien's voice, ringing clear from her face that hovers before his, "You let me die, you let Mommy die!"_

"_No!" he tries to scream, but no sound comes out of his mouth. He is frozen. _

_For one who thinks so lucidly, who goes over every action in his mind before executing it with the careful menace of an assassin, he wants to deny that accusation and explain himself. But in his heart, he knows it's true, that he has borne the guilt all these years. _

"_Yes, yes, yes," she cries, plaintively, accusingly, "you broke your promise!" _

"_No," he screams, 'no, no, no,' all in vain. He can only echo in his heart, _No.

"_You've forgotten about me!"_

No.

"_You've forgotten about fear, about fighting!"_

NO.

_She starts to laugh. In the break between giggles she mouths, "__Scarecrow."_

_He starts. She has never called him that. He asks, in a doubtful whisper, "What...what did you call me?"_

_Julien fades and is replaced by Ethel, who screeches, "SCARECROW!!!"_

_The bullies' voices join the chanting chorus of "scarecrow, scarecrow", and as the chanting increases in volume and intensity, he can clearly distinguish Julien's and Ethel's voices above the rest. Louder and louder; the noise, he can't shut it out, he wants to, but he can't, he can't. All he can do is scream just loud enough to cover the noise, and this is what he does, over and over... _

Until he wakes up.

----------

As the night wore on slowly, painfully, her thoughts began to focus on a single person. Hunger and insomnia made people do that; think about things they carefully avoided or carelessly glossed over. She had never felt this unsure. Teetering on the edge of uncertainty for so long had made her wonder if there was a confounding virus that coursed through her veins, a blurring between her desire and the cleft in his heart she wished she could see and seal.

She needed to sort things out. And what better place to do so other than--

_The Bridge._

They had spent a lot of time there in their spare time, just sitting side by side, watching the water. Maybe the turbulent waters would somehow swallow up her doubts and leave her clear and decided. Maybe being there would help to remove the sludge from the surface of everything.

She rose, and took a few resolute steps out of the gate.

It was time.

----------

The sheets were tangled around his legs, snaking in figure-of-eights about his ankles, stark reminders of the water that had gripped his feet and pulled him beneath the surface to enter the world of voices. He took in gasping breaths, quick and fast at first, then slowly becoming long and deeply drawn as minutes passed. His chest was heaving, and he was crying without sound. Embarrassed, Jonathan wiped the tears away angrily with the back of a hand, but they kept coming, and nothing could stop the flow.

He stood up from the bed, and swayed slightly, his feet unsteady. He stumbled out of the room and into the corridor. He was compelled by some unknown force to move, to walk. Pushing his tousled hair out of his eyes and holding his other palm to the wall, he swept his eyes across the apartment. Each breath returned to him loud and laboured. He swallowed.

All was silent.

----------

She hurried along, clutching her bag close to her. The wind whipped her cheeks and her long hair trailed behind her, a brown banner carried by the wind. Almost as soon as her resolve had set in, she was clouded by doubt and now she paused and glanced behind her. Her eyes shut briefly.

Maybe things should just be left as they were.

But in the flutter of time between one moment and the next she looked down at her hands, empty without his, and they told her exactly what she had to do.

----------

Jonathan's sigh lent slight reprieve. His body sank closer to the wall, now moist against his clammy palm. He jerked his head to the right, and then the other way, assured that he was alone in the apartment. Suddenly he turned around and there _it_ was behind him, a face in the floor that grew into a dark figure of seven feet featureless and glowering which he knew not what it was or who, only that it spoke _Evil_ and by its uneven steps toward him was probably no longer content with mere surveillance. It was too far away to be his shadow.

Jonathan backed away, knocking over the pile of books on the table and almost stumbling into a chair. He could feel its cold fingers an inch from his neck as he tore away to the door and out of the apartment, certain that it was following him as he ran out into the quiet night.

----------

The streetlights flickered out, causing her shadow to dance and disappear. Ethel glanced warily from one side of the street to the next and quickened her pace. No girl should wander alone on the streets of Gotham this late at night, but something told her to carry on, a pressing need she held and she beheld in someone she could come to love.

----------

The streets were suspiciously empty this night, but Jonathan was oblivious to this as he fled from his pursuer. He did not know how long he ran, or how far. His heart cried out to him to slow down. The tingling at the back of his neck had disappeared. He jerked his head around and discovered that the figure was no longer there. He frowned, and checked again. It was gone.

Pausing, he rested his hands on his thighs, utterly spent. Could it have been merely a figment of his imagination? Or was it…? A low laugh echoed from a deserted building to his left and he jumped. It was hardly safe here. Reason advised him to head home and soon, but the idea of returning to the apartment made him nauseous. He coughed a laugh at the notion that he had nowhere to go. Everything seemed out of focus and as he brought a hand to his face he realised that he had left the house without his glasses.

'Hey, kid,' someone hollered. He turned.

'Yeah, you,'

Jonathan squinted. Surveying his surroundings, he got his bearings as best as he could and hit the pavement running. Driven by fear and little else, he let his legs direct him to the one place where he'd felt safe, once, before.

----------

Finally Ethel arrived at the bridge. She sat down and crossed her legs. The edges of the river framed the sky, its surface rippling the clouds that parted to reveal a sliver of moon and a star. Her fingers wound their way around the handles of her bag and her thumbs met when she picked up the slightest hint of footsteps at the other end of the bridge.

She rose as he stumbled toward her, not crying but his face wet in all the right places, his eyes wild with fright as he fell into her arms, his tall frame crumpling when she held him about the waist. With his head resting on her shoulder Jonathan could feel each breath warm against the pulse at her neck. He closed his eyes and sobbed, no longer out of fear of his pursuer but at the thought that _he had seen It_, and that the only reason why he could was an association between him and the Evil distilled. That _that _was closer to him than a shadow, for it was the thing which festered in his heart, sprang in his gait, came between his fingers and all he touched. Yet all this while she held him still, her hand at his back firm and comforting, even when all he would ever be capable of was evil. How could it be that only yesterday her eyes suggested that he could be saved? He pushed her away and stumbled backwards, passed his fingers across his eyes as if wiping away a spell.

Ethel moved in, whispered, 'Jonathan. What's wrong?'

He turned from her. 'Nothing,' he paused, 'everything.' Then, 'I don't know.'

She stepped closer, ran her thumb in slow circles on his palm. 'You don't have to say anything.'

'You should go,'

'No,' as she took his hands, pale but unyielding, and he brought himself to look at her. Against the water she stood, the waves beating uselessly beneath her feet, his sole lighthouse of sobriety shining regal in the night. He met her steadfast gaze. If he could believe it, he told himself, he would. He would be saved.

'But this,' he indicated the dark expanse of water with his hand, 'this is how it'll end,' He swallowed. 'This.' The tears came to his eyes again and he looked away.

Resting her lips on his shoulder, Ethel murmured, 'It doesn't always have to be this way.'

**To Be Continued...**


End file.
